Perennial
by Dreams2Paper11
Summary: When Robin spoke into the darkness, he really wasn't expecting an answer. De-aged!Robin, Mentor!Slade. Rated T for safety because I have no idea what the heck will pop up in here.
1. Chapter 1

**AU: I'll say this right off the bat- don't expect for this to be updated regularly. I've devoted myself entirely to one of my fics, Ink Stains, and this is just a half-formed drabble that refuses to leave me be. This is for all the de-aged!Robin writers out there, because Lord knows there aren't enough quality ones. **

**.**

**.**

Robin knew from the start that this wasn't going to be a good mission.

Even now, as he loomed over Mad Mod's fallen figure, unease prickled at the back of his mind, honed instincts blaring, though he could not see any cause for alarm. Mad Mod had been beaten, the rough burlap sacks of money recovered, the chase halted before the city sustained any heavy damage. By all means, this was a cause for victory… but…

He inquiringly nudged the man's skull gently with the steel toe of his boot, scowling downwards at the head of thick, vivid red hair. So Mod had stolen someone's youth. _Great_. Now he'd have to track down the victim and restore their vitality, on top of paperwork for the city and his ongoing research.

The rest of the team was quickly approaching, and even though Robin didn't face them, his sharp ears could pick out the distinct hollow rings of Cyborg's bionic feet against concrete, the light patter of Beast Boy's steps, and the soft whoosh of Raven's cloak. Starfire had been knocked out of the fight earlier, held down by an enormous pile of Mod's robots. Robin hoped she'd managed to hoist all of them off of herself by now.

As his team neared, Robin knelt, deft fingers fluidly dipping to his waist where he kept a pair of inhibitor cuffs. It was a practiced motion, one performed too many times to still uphold its pride and triumph. Robin remembered that handcuffing a criminal used to give him satisfaction and a sense of fulfillment. Now, the sixteen year old simply felt tired.

He latched the right cuff onto the limp wrist. Mod was unconscious, so he wouldn't bother with the whole 'You're going to jail and here are your rights blah blah blah'—

—A movement.

Mod's eyelid cracked open, revealing a pupil dilated with triumph. Robin tightened his grip on the formerly unconscious figure's wrist, a silent warning not to push the teen any farther, but Mod's grin only hooked wider, revealing a set of disgustingly white teeth.

"Gotcha," the British figure shrieked lowly, even as Robin shifted to cuff the free wrist.

Robin didn't even have the time to understand the implications before Mod bucked in a startling display of strength, managing to knock the raven-haired teen on his backside. The gangly man rolled over, landing on his side, his back to Robin. He twisted his neck as much as humanly possible, round chin settling on his bony shoulder. From his hands, interlocked behind his back, a strange silver device protruded. Robin didn't know how Mod had slipped it into his palms, especially when they had been empty only a moment before.

Robin lunged forward, booted feet digging deeply into the ground to propel him forward, but Mod laughed, and then a dazzling red beam fired from the slim nozzle, hitting Robin squarely on the chest before he could react. He didn't feel any pain. Rather, the moment the concentrated laser hit his covered chest, darkness stole over his vision softly and silently, like black fuzz. Though he could not feel it, he was aware of himself falling spastically to the ground, body falling into convulsions as red energy flickered over his shaking form.

But then he knew no more.

**.**

**Slade**

**.**

"I'm not quite sure what to make of this, Slade," William Wintergreen said as he flicked through the article on the iPad presented to him. From across the dark kitchen table, the addressed man sipped sedately at a cup of jasmine tea, inhaling the wisps of steam in satisfaction. His piercing gray eye roved over the online news clipping that Will was currently re-skimming through.

"Merits investigation, wouldn't you say?" Slade rumbled, and spun the iPad back around, taking the time to analyze the grainy photograph of the Titans (minus their fearless leader) swarming around a tiny, black-haired bundle. He flicked to the next picture, revealing another blurry shot of the limp child being hoisted into the panicked alien girl's tan arms. If one looked just hard enough, a circular yellow badge with a bold black 'R' could be seen pinned loosely to the brightly colored uniform draped around the little kid's form.

Will rubbed the bridge of his nose and heaved a long, drawn out sigh as Slade immersed himself in the tabloid.

"Look, Slade," the British man snapped irritably, though without any real venom. "I wasn't here for the whole 'apprentice' fiasco—" Slade's bare hands twitched on the slim black device "—but I do know that it ended badly. For you, and for pretty much everyone involved. And you really want to plunge yourself—"

"Will, he's the one," Slade stressed, gently depositing the iPad onto the table once more. Golden bars of sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, laying yellow stripes across Will's face, dappling his serious expression. Dust motes swirled lazily through the air. The cheerful weather jarred sharply with the solemn atmosphere inside the hideout's comfortably-furnished kitchen. "I've searched for _years_—he's the only one who's ever passed all of my tests. He has a spark in him—if I could just tame it, _mold_ it—he's everything I wanted in a protégé."

"If this article holds any truth, you mean, which I doubt it does," Will cut in acidly, scoffing as he reclined in his seat. His own cup of tea was forgotten, cooling rapidly with every passing moment. "Are you sure this would be the right time? According to this" (he tapped a finger against the softly glowing screen) "he's just a little boy now. I thought you wanted a basis of skills to build upon."

"I did," Slade agreed pleasantly. His dark eye hadn't moved once from the grainy image. "But then I realized, how much better would it be if I instilled my own basics into his pliant little head? A chance to erase those irritating morals pummeled into his soul by the Bat, to imprint my own seal on his beginnings. A clean slate for me to write upon, so to speak."

Will ran a hand through his thin white hair in frustration. He was too old for this. Though he was Slade's butler, he was also a rather old friend to the man, and Slade often consulted him on matters, though none had ever held such weight as this one. And when Slade set his mind to something…

"What are you going to do, Slade? _Kidnap_ him?" He bit out shortly. Will had done 'bad' things in his lifetime. He'd killed before, of course—as a retired veteran, it had only been natural. But Will had a set of morals where Slade only loosely adhered to his own killing code, crafted by himself. The idea of kidnapping a small, defenseless child nagged at Will's flickering conscious.

Slade smirked, bringing his cup upwards for a sip. "Only if he struggles."

"_Slade."_

"Calm yourself, it was a joke." He leaned forward, shutting off the device and slipping it into a thin leather case, and stood up from the table. He held a one-eyed metallic mask in his right hand, black and orange coloring split down the middle. "I'll simply visit first, to get some information, and then act on what I find."

Will rolled his eyes but relented, wisely selecting to finish his cup of (now cold ) tea before thinking himself up a headache, as Slade left the room to change into his armored suit.

**.**

**.**

Robin jackknifed to a sitting position, small bare hands clutching the hem of his soft cotton blanket. The darkened interior of Titan Tower greeted him solemnly. His piercing blue eyes wandered around the shadow wreathed room, nervously flicking from dark shape to shape, as his heartbeat fluttered in his ribcage.

The Tower was so scary at night. He missed his _Mami_ and _Tătic_ desperately. Harsh light flickered outside the Tower, lancing across the dark heavens in a burst of speed. Thunder exploded overhead, so loud that Robin felt his cold cup of hot chocolate from earlier vibrate on the tablestand. He clapped his hands over his mouth before he could let loose a whimper. Usually, when there were storms big like this one, ones strong enough to rock their trailer, his _Mami _would come into his partition and hold him close until he fell asleep.

He wanted the warmth of her soft arms encircling his body, he wanted the naturally milky, reassuring scent that graced her like perfume.

Robin forced himself to lay down again, nestling his inky black crown into the fluffy pillow, gnawing anxiously on his lower lip.

He remembered his mother, and his father, and the circus. He remembered that his name was Robin—

_(—wasn't it?—)_

—and that the Titans were his friends, but why couldn't he remember how he had gotten to that busted up street in the city, lying on his back and staring up into worried faces, next to a cackling red-haired man?

The Titans—his friends—reassured him that they would be researching heavily into the subject so that he could be returned back to normal again—what was _normal?—_but something inside of him had been irritated at that. Why couldn't he know what had happened? Why couldn't _he_ research?

Robin knew himself well enough to admit that he was a bit of a control freak, and would rather do it himself _(and have it done right)_ than to trust it in someone else's hands.

A light, overlapping tapping on the glass.

Robin looked up, just barely managing to make out the watery streaks slashing diagonally across the gigantic glass panes. The rain had started. He tossed the blanket off of his legs and padded across the living room to kneel in front of the window. It felt cool to the touch. He leaned his forehead against it and sighed. His _Mami_ had always told him to stay away from windows during storms.

Though he didn't like thunder and lightning, Robin had always loved the rain.

He planned the paths of the fat droplets as they raced across the glass, conjoining and dividing and slowing and speeding. The ocean frothed at the foot of the rocky island, foam lashing against the slippery, jagged rocks. The seven-year-old pressed his face against the glass as much as he could, enough to perceive the long fall downwards. Heights had never bothered him before. He liked high places, but why was this place so big for only a few people?

Thunder boomed out of nowhere like a concussive blast, and for a second, the entire night sky was illuminated like a Christmas tree by the biggest blast of lightning yet. Robin yelped and scrambled backwards, heart pounding as he retreated to the safety of the living room couch.

It was here, heart still thumping, that he heard a velvety chuckle among the dying rumbles in the sky. He cocked an ear, stiffening in curiosity at the sound. It was not conspicuous, not projecting at all, and Robin probably wouldn't have heard it unless its sound had contrasted so sharply with the thunder.

He spun around quickly on his knees, because he'd seen enough scary movies to know that if you turned around slowly, there would be a ghastly face crowding yours.

But there was no deranged clown—

_(green hair, pasty white skin and teeth, red smiling lips—)_

—only vast emptiness.

His fingers, so pale they nearly shone white in the darkness, kneaded the blanket's fuzzy hem desperately. "Hello?" He whispered quietly, a calm voice hiding the stark fear squeezing his heart. He wasn't sure why he spoke it. If there was truly a monster in the shadows, Robin did not want to acknowledge its existence, and thus, bring it to life and invite it to reveal itself. Ignorance is truly bliss, the saying goes, and Robin, in that moment, knew exactly what it meant.

But he'd always been called a brave boy, hadn't he?

For a long moment, there was nothing—only crystalline stillness, a delicate glass awaiting a falling hammer, a pause between the notes of a song, the rustle of feathers before flight.

And then a calm, amused voice answered him, issuing forth out of the solid blackness.

"Hello, Robin."

**.**

**.**

**AN: Ron Perlman's voice. Can we not?**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hey, guess who's alive. Happy new years! Thank you for all the lovely reviews. :)**

**In other completely unrelated and irrelevant news: THAT SHERLOCK EPISODE. WHAT. THE HECK. (I've only seen the first episode of season 3, and THERE WAS NOT ENOUGH ANGST! Aaaaaaaaaargh-)**

**.**

**.**

_Previously: For a long moment, there was nothing—only crystalline stillness, a delicate glass awaiting a falling hammer, a pause between the notes of a song, the rustle of feathers before flight._

_And then a calm, amused voice answered him, issuing forth out of the solid blackness._

_"Hello, Robin."_

**_._**

**_._**

If Robin thought he was motionless before, he was wrong.

It's a sort of paralyzing dread, to realize that the monster is real- and on top of that, _answers _you. Every muscle tightens, the heart stutters like a flat stone skipping over water. Your ears seal up, your mouth drains of moisture. You field of vision narrows, dims, then flares again.

But some select people, after that first moment of utter shock, react in a different sort of way when faced with danger. Their flight instinct suppressed, they find themselves moving, moving _towards _it, in a vain hope to attack it, face it head on, conquer it.

Robin realized… well, he was one of _those _people when he blinked and suddenly found himself nimbly charging into the darkness, small fists balled and mouth flattened in a scowl. His heart was pounding desperately in his eardrums, of course, but the adrenalin crashing through his veins like water through an opened floodgate was intoxicating. Exhilarating.

And, above all else: familiar.

Although, the rush faded abruptly when he smacked head-first into something hard.

He wheeled backwards from the impact, a thudding ache blooming behind his brow, and would have landed painfully on his bottom if large, leather-gloved fingers had not gracefully encircled his slim wrist and halted his descent.

He looked up into a dark eye, the white of it dimmed by the shadow of a mask that melted seamlessly into the shadows. A faint vapor of familiarity rolled along the heels of his mind, there were quick flashes of color and sounds assaulting his senses in quick, choppy imprints. A rooftop, a neon glow. Moving, striking. Falling…

… _Not _falling.

Words bubbled up in his mouth before he could stop them, and they slipped from his slack lips like a foot on black ice.

"You… saved me?" Robin whispered, as a not-quite ethereal ghost mouthed the words alongside him.

The question was familiar, and odd. It didn't quite fit the context of the situation- honestly, what was the worst that could happen- he'd bump his head?- but never since Robin's awakening had so few words felt so distinctly right.

Robin's pupils had dilated fully in the blackness of night, he could see more details. The figure didn't blend quite so perfectly into the ensconcing shadows- but he came close. The darkness was denser, more solid, and, unknown to Robin, only a trained eye would have been able to pick it out.

All this to say, Robin saw that dark eye widen slightly, as if an eyebrow was raised.

"Well," the monster spoke cordially, dryly. His voice didn't _break _the quiet, per se. It was too sneaky, too quiet and deep and smooth. It simply slipped right in without the silence even knowing it had been broken. "quite deja-vu."

Robin tilted his head in uncomprehending, heart still beating. "What?" He asked blankly.

Robin felt the texture of the leathered fingers shifting on his wrist, turning the appendage, examined the loosely folded white fingers, the small nails.

"Smaller than I expected, as well."

His face flushed. He hated his size. He didn't understand what the monster meant, but he expected it to be demeaning all the same. He tried to yank his arm away, but the hand tightened, holding him in place.

A strike of lightning broke over the dark skies like a yellow claw, and the burst of light illuminated the figure before him.

Tall, heavily muscled. Broad shoulders. Black jumpsuit, molded armor protecting the body's weak points. A two-toned mask, with only one eye settled in the wicked orange.

A feeling of helplessness, hatred, frustration. Robin felt a flash of panic, inflated his lungs and opened his mouth-

"_Don't_ scream," the man cut him off suddenly, kneeling, and yet he was still taller than Robin!-and his free hand came up, trapping itself against Robin's mouth. Gentle pressure was applied, not even enough to crush his lips against his teeth, but Robin received the message all the same.

He had been wrong. This was a different kind of monster.

"Why don't we sit on the couch and simply talk?" The man suggested, after Robin, intimidated by the situation, had meekly nodded his acquiescence. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

Robin mumbled something muffled by the man's relaxed grip. The man, after a warning look, split his fingers so that the sound could escape.

"Not even if I scream?" He whispered back, heart pounding, yet still defiant, because he was not stupid and he knew that this man spelled trouble no matter what he said and Robin most certainly would not be going down easy. It was a veiled challenge, a toe in the water as he assessed and weighed choices and their outcomes.

The weight of that singular eye's gaze pressed upon him. Something like amusement passed over the gray irises.

"Ah, _there _you are… _Robin… _I knew it couldn't have been dampened entirely."

"What?" Robin asked again, more crossly this time. He hated being kept in the dark.

The man chuckled briefly, pulling his hand away without prior warning. Robin scrubbed his lips of the taste of well-broken leather. "Your fighting spirit. Remarkable. You never cease to impress me."

Robin dropped his jaw again, sucking in a giant breath, both eyes fixed on the looming man in front of him. The figure in question tilted his head, as if waiting. As Robin held the air in his lungs without release, his heartbeat grew louder in his ears.

"Go on, then. Scream for help."

The man's firm command echoed in his ears, slipping among the double-thump of his heartbeat. At the sterner tone of voice, Robin's heartbeat skittered. Something deep inside him balked at that tone, and his young mind sensed what adults often do- say one thing, and mean another.

Especially after the man had just _seconds _ago instructed him _not _to scream.

And so Robin held the breath, wondering why he couldn't let himself yell for help.

Finally, he let the trapped air out, listening as the breath rushed past his lips in a mighty exhale. "No," he said simply. "I don't need to. I don't need their help." He didn't. Honestly. He didn't. He was fine on his own. He was a big boy.

"Why is that?"

Robin shifted, uncomfortable, jitterly bending a bare toe against the cold floor in his nervousness. His small nails did their best to bite into his palms. "I don't 'member," he muttered, and maintaining eye contact was suddenly uncomfortable, so he dropped his eyes to the floor.

A shame, really, because otherwise he might have seen the corded arms stealthily move backwards, fingers dipping into a pouch and withdrawing a small brown glass bottle and a rag.

"Shame. Why don't I help you with that?" The man suggested after a beat, and Robin's eyes crinkled in subsequent confusion, flickering upwards just in time for his instincts screaming at him to move as arms lashed out, one hand gripping the back of his skull and the other insistently pressing a wetted rag to his nose. He gasped in surprise, and that would be his undoing. The rag smelled pungent, in a sweet sort of way, like burning sugar.

The man slowly eased him backwards onto the floor, easily muffling his small sounds of protest and fear, holding him securely. His arms were the steel bars of a cage- inescapable. The rag was blocking Robin's nostrils, and he felt like he was suffocating- he had to breathe- -he had to- !

He took small breaths, wide, frightened eyes fixed on the mask hovering over him, listening with a sort of dreadful intent as the man murmured soothing phrases of advice.

"Breathe, breathe… there we go…"

The seconds crawled by, measured by each shuddering, desperate breath Robin took. He was feeling light-headed. His flailing limbs trembled, fell to the floor in exhaustion, his pounding heart growing distant. Was he dying? He didn't want to die. His ears sealed slowly. Shaky, short breaths lapsed into drawn-out sighs.

Colors and shapes, hidden though they were by the night, blurred together, melting into a lake of still darkness.

He wasn't even aware when his eyes closed.

**.**

**.**

Will looked up from the interesting whorls and varnished colors in the kitchen room table as he heard the front door open, then click shut softly. Steel-toed boots scraped against the hallway floor, a satisfied grunt at the escape of the summer storm.

Will swiped his palm across his wrinkled mouth, glancing at the time and rolling his eyes. Slade.

"So," he called out, voice bouncing from the kitchen to the house's entryway as he pushed back his chair, preparing to stand. "Get what you wanted?"

He wondered drily to himself if Slade had already mapped out a plan for abducting the poor boy on the way home based on the information recovered. It was 4:07 in the morning, and Will had waited up all night for him to return home, medical kit prepped and ready in case Slade needed it.

"Something like that," Slade's baritone voice answered him somewhat sheepishly and somewhat excited. A very bad combination when it comes to Slade. Will paused, halfway out of his chair, and looked up, a tired expression worn into the lines of his face, illuminated by the warm glow of the mini table lamp.

"You didn't."

Slade rounded the corner, resting his back comfortably against the kitchen doorway. There was a small bundle cradled securely in his arms, a rain-spattered coat draped over the crumpled body to shield it from the worst of the storm. Will's breath left his chest in a whoosh and he sat back down, heavily.

Slade folded back the collar of the jacket, revealing a sleeping young boy's face, framed by messy black locks.

"I did."

"So what happened to, 'just gathering information'?" Will mocked, sighing again and rubbing a thumb along his brow, unbelieving eyes falling to the tabletop.

"Plans change," Slade said shortly, and moved past him, carrying the unconscious child upstairs to the bedrooms, casually toeing off his boots as he went and dropping the coat on the back of a kitchen chair.

"Chloroform?" Will bit out after a moment, listening to the faint rasp of sheets being folded back and pillows arranged.

"You know me so well," came Slade's dry reply.

"Takes fifty minutes to get from the Tower to here," Will sighed. "Assuming you drugged him at the Tower… he'll probably start to wake up in twenty minutes or so."

"The sooner the better."

"He'll hate you."

"At first."

Will blew air through his nose, drummed his fingertips against the tabletop. He didn't approve of the kidnapping of a child… but Slade was his friend. Comrade. He had promised to support him, even as Slade toyed repeatedly with the Titans: a team of naive teenagers. If he had held firm then, what was different now?

Slade reappeared in the doorway and took a seat opposite to his butler. Will remembered just earlier that day sitting in the exact same spot that he was already in and listening as Slade prepared to do some 'reconnaissance.'

Now, Slade merely looked at him, a pleased smile tugging at his lips.

"He's the one, Will. I know it. I just _know _it."

"So you've said," Will returned sarcastically, and then stood from his chair, resigned and tired of the silent argument. "I'll put the kettle on for some tea, then."

Slade smirked.

**AN: Guess who did research? Chloroform doesn't take effect instantly, despite what movie make it seem like. And it doesn't last all day either. You learn something every day, eh?**


End file.
